


Going Into Retirement

by olehistorian



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4304289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olehistorian/pseuds/olehistorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a comment Mrs. Hughes alter ego said in an interview about Mrs. Hughes not going gently into retirement after being in charge for so very many years of a large country estate. Set in Series 5 and S6 and beyond. Formerly titled "Not Going Into Retirement Gently"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She had never thought that she would live to retire. Thought that she would die in harness as they say. She'd thought him ridiculous when he'd said much the same thing back during the war, when he was considering going to Haxby; when he told her that he thought that he would die at Downton and haunt it ever after. She'd never, necessarily, thought that she'd die at Downton. Never thought of any one place of employment particularly, just that she would always need to work. She never really gave much thought to it; never imagined sitting behind her desk, pencil in hand, adding figures in her ledger, perhaps closing her eyes, resting her head back just for a moment, and that being it. Of someone finding her like that. Perhaps Madge or Anna, Mrs. Patmore, or heaven forbid, him. No, she imagined working as long as anyone would allow her. Whether it was at Downton by his side or somewhere else.

But when he proposed a business venture, she had to reconsider retirement; consider the improbability of it. She'd pushed idea to the back of her mind, because she knew that she could never and thought he would never consider it. She didn't think that he had it in him. However, things had changed since that day at the beach when she had dared him to move forward, when she had had enough of this pushing and pulling thing that they did to one another.

She had seen the hurt in his eyes when she had told him that she couldn't go in with him, couldn't invest her share. She had never wanted to string him along, never wanted to raise his hopes only to dash them. She had wanted to keep it from him, the secret of her sister, that she, herself, was a pauper. She had never lied, not by commission, but by omission and it seemed just as deceitful, just as hurtful. The look of hurt in his eyes was more than she could bear, to think that she had killed their little dream.

But he had surprised her. Instead of anger, he had shown kindness and generosity of spirit, blamed himself for bullying and chivvying her when he should have shown sensitivity; when he should have outright asked for her hand. However, he didn't ask that, not yet because he wasn't ready, couldn't screw up his courage and put it into words; the things people don't say to one another.

Then he had told her he'd bought the house. She was genuinely happy for him, told him that he deserved it and he did. But she also knew that it meant he would one day leave her; that he would retire to that house or to another. That she would be the one to die at Downton and haunt its halls ever after. He would leave and eventually so would Mrs. Patmore and perhaps Daisy would go off to the farm. And there she would be. Alone. Keys jingling at her hip, an ever rotating parade of young girls to train and mentor until they too left to marry and run their own houses while she stayed behind cataloguing someone else's linens, balancing someone else's ledgers, living in someone else's house. She would trudge flights of stairs to her room that was cold in winter, stifling with stagnant heat in summer. She would climb into a bed just big enough for one while he settled into a bed for two in a warm room, in a cozy house. But she was happy for him; really, she was. She had made her choices. Family came first; there was no room for empty promises or those yet to be made.


	2. Two Become One

Once, some years ago, she had told Mrs. Crawley that Mr. Carson had astonished her. She had never figured on his meeting Charlie Grigg at the station that day, never expected him to swallow his pride and see off his old pal; never expected him to extend his hand and wish well the man who'd caused him such misery and stolen his girl all those years ago. Yet he had done just that and she was well and truly taken aback. However, it was not the first time that he had left her speechless, taken her breath away. No, the day she had heard the strains of an old folk tune sung in his voice, tears pricked her eyes and she couldn't have found words to express the joy she felt when she heard the words he sang of her stealing his heart away. He didn't know she'd heard him singing and she'd never tell him. It was her secret to keep tucked away in the folds of her heart to remember on cold nights when they had argued over some stupid thing that did not really matter or when he'd said something insensitive or haughty.

It was not often that she was left speechless, unable to come up with a pithy remark or two, an explanation when pressed. But he had quite frankly astonished her with his proposal of marriage. Though she had hoped that someday he would finally get around to it, she had not expected him to leave the Christmas party while Lady Mary sang, guide her to his pantry, and close the door. When he told her that he signed her name to the deed, she thought he had done it out of some pang of loyalty, guilt over having pushed her to consider buying a house with him when she could not afford it. But she soon realized that it was not that at all.

Though there had been no grand declarations and he had never expressly said the word 'love,' she knew it all the same. The way he hadn't tugged at his waistcoat, as he was wont to do when unsure, told her that this had not been unplanned but that he had given careful consideration perhaps not to what he would say but to what he wanted her to understand. That he didn't call her by her Christian name, perhaps too intimate, perhaps feeling the hadn't the right quite yet and his not using her title, because this was not about their positions in the house but about their futures together, told her more than any words he said ever could. Simply, he told her that he wanted only her. When she finally found her words she stumbled, uttered something ridiculous about getting a proposal at her age. They still danced around one another until it was his turn to put a stop to it, to ask her what exactly she meant. Bringing her hand to her breast and shaking her head at her own silliness, she put him out of his misery.

The tears in his eyes when she accepted him, spoke of his love for her louder and more sweetly than had said the word itself. No, his proposal and her acceptance may not have been the stuff of romance novels, but it was the stuff of their romance; of a romance true and pure, deep and abiding, unmuddled by false notes of over sentimentality and the expectations of others. She had once told him they were different people, but now they would embark on becoming one.


	3. The New Year

Since his proposal, the one that wasn’t the business venture but the one in which he asked for her heart to be untied with his, her days were filled with so many things to plan. Deciding that they wanted some time to themselves, time to come to terms with and enjoy their understanding, she and Mr. Carson had decided to inform His Lordship and Her Ladyship of their understanding during the days between Christmas and the New Year. Though her Ladyship proved unsurprised and immediately congratulatory, His Lordship lived up to Miss Sybbie’s name for him and proved slow on the uptake, genuinely confused at first. After a momentary lapse at yet another secret in his house that he had not noticed, he smiled brightly, extended a hand to Mr. Carson, and wished the couple well. Lady Mary, who popped into the room at the moment of this happy exchange, saw the bright smile on both the butler and housekeeper’s faces and immediately guessed the news. Her happiness was immediate and genuine. With the family’s acceptance, Mr. Carson practically floated on air the remainder of the day.

While she should have been planning her wedding, Mrs. Hughes was instead planning the festivities of the house. New Year’s Eve proved especially daunting as the Crawleys decided to ring in 1925 in high style inviting all and sundry of their friends to an elaborate house party. It seemed as if everyone knew that these were the last days of such frivolities and what with Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie leaving for America in a few days, everyone wanted to distract themselves from the sorrow of their departure. Even Mr. Carson had to admit that he would miss young man and Mrs. Hughes thought she saw his eyes glisten just a little when he spoke of Lady’s Sybil’s little girl leaving.

With planning the house party, memories of the last such event plaguing her mind to an alarming degree, Mrs. Hughes was exceedingly glad when the whole business was over and all the guests packed and departed. Catching her breath for a moment, she and Mr. Carson discussed when their wedding might be. As they sat in her sitting room, she nursed her sherry in one hand while Mr. Carson lovingly held the other. As exhausted as they were, they refused to give up their little late night talks especially now that they were to be married. They wished to be married as soon as possible, the wait excruciating; at least she knew it was for her though she would never tell him. 

She had thought that she would live the life of a spinster and had been content with that, but now that she was his fiancée things had changed. As she sat across from him each night, discussing the mundane goings on of the house, or things decidedly less mundane but not improper, she thought of reaching over to untie his tie, loosen his collar, and unfasten the studs of his shirt just a little. Just enough to expose some of his skin, skin always covered by layers of starched perfection. Since she had tasted his lips the night of his proposal, before they ascended the stairs to re-join the Christmas party, she longed for more than just a chaste good night kiss on the cheek. 

For his part, he lay awake at night thinking of her, of how soft her skin must feel, how she must look with her hair down, how warm her body would feel next to his. Even thoughts of her tormented his dreams in the most delicious way. He dreamt of her head resting on his chest, the wisps of her hair tickling his bare chest, of her hand tenderly reaching up to his cheek and pulling him into a fiery kiss. Of her hands running through his hair pulling him over her. Yes, they needed to set a date as soon as possible.

They decided on April, logic prevailing upon them, what with the reading of the banns and the cold of the winter months. Both hoped that the demands of the house and the planning of their small wedding might take their minds off more distracting things. Deciding that they should call it a night, that tomorrow comes soon enough, Mr. Carson placed his glass on the table and took Mrs. Hughes glass from her, clasping both of her hands in his. He pulled her close, but not so close that she would be shocked at the improper desire that coursed through him at the mere touch of her. He leaned down and made to kiss her cheek but at the last second she turned and his lips grazed hers. He released her hands and immediately they settled on her hips while her left hand came to rest softly on his face caressing his cheekbone. They kissed gently for a long moment before pulling back, her hand gliding from his face down the starched front of his shirt to his chest. She patted him casually and with a mischievous smile bid him sweet dreams.


	4. Changes

The winter of 1925 found the Butler and the Housekeeper quite busy as they attended to the business of not just one house but two houses. At the Abbey, Mr. Carson grumbled incessantly. With only two footman and His Lordship pushing for further reductions in the staff, Mr. Carson huffed and blustered about falling standards. Mrs. Hughes gently tried to remind him that she only had two housemaids and poor Mrs. Patmore had no kitchen maids so he might as well get used to the way things were done nowadays. Even though the bluntness of her words came concealed in honeyed tones of concern, Mr. Carson felt very little solace, especially when Lord Grantham suggested that perhaps Downton no longer needed the services of its underbutler. Though Mr. Carson held no great fondness for Mr. Barrow, he could hardly deny the prestige of Downton's having an underbutler among its ranks. "Is Downton to become just another country house like every other?" he lamented to Mrs. Hughes.

The New Year brought with it many changes to the Abbey, the engagement of the butler and housekeeper being but one of them. In January, they had seen Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie off. Mrs. Hughes personally supervised her girls, making certain that they carefully packed Miss Sybbie's dresses in tissue paper, wrapped her shoes in cotton cloth, and stowed them in the appointed steamer trunks. Mr. Carson had lent her the use of two hallboys and she made sure that they sorted and packed away the girl's favourite toys. Mrs. Hughes tried not to be too put out with the young lads as they rolled their eyes at one another while they wrapped dolls and delicate tea sets before packing them in straw to ensure they arrived in America safely. It would not do for Miss Sybbie to arrive at her new home only to find her prized possessions shattered into pieces.

Mr. Branson was not the only member of the family that left the Abbey that winter, for in February Lady Edith and little Marigold took their leave and boarded the train to London. While Lady Mary showed great sadness at Mr. Branson's departure, she showed very little interest in the fact that her remaining sister moved to London to take over Mr. Gregson's publishing company. Mr. Carson attributed this to the fact that Lady Mary was busy with her increased role in running of the estate while Mrs. Hughes simply believed that Lady Mary was relieved to have her sister out of sight.

As for the other house, their house, the one on Brouncker Road, Mr. Carson shouldered the responsibility for supervising the workman as they made the necessary repairs to "get the house up to snuff" as Mrs. Hughes put it. Mr. Carson had negotiated a fair wage with the estate workmen to make the miscellaneous repairs. They repaired cracks in walls and a cracked door casing in one of the guest rooms and applied a fresh coat of paint to the walls. While Mr. Carson made most of the decisions regarding repairs and purchases, Mrs. Hughes chose paint colours and furnishings; a nice cream for the bedrooms and a cheery pale yellow for the kitchen. As a wedding gift, Her Ladyship generously extended to Mrs. Hughes the offer of perusing the attics in order to select some of Abbey's old furnishings for their new house. Mr. Carson did have one surprise for his intended. He was especially proud the day that the workmen installed a new, white porcelain Aga range and removed the old heavy, grease laden, black one. He hoped that she would be happy with his choice.

One morning, Mrs. Hughes departed the linen cupboard to hear Mrs. Patmore's voice becoming more and more animated. Hoping to go unnoticed, Mrs. Hughes attempted quietly to pass by the kitchen until Mrs. Patmore saw her and called her aside. The cook had once again begun to lament the newly installed refrigerator and the myriad of other modern conveniences that Her Ladyship had purchased in order to make her job easier. At the end of Mrs. Patmore's tirade, Mrs. Hughes was happy to find her fiancé looking for her in the servants' corridor.

"Mrs. Hughes, I was wondering if I might have a word," he asked quietly.

"Of course, Mr. Carson," she answered. "How can I help?"

"Well, with Lady Edith in London and Lady Mary and His Lordship visiting with the estate farmers tomorrow, I thought that we might take a moment to visit the house," he suggested.

"That sounds very nice," she agreed. "I'll pack a hamper." She noticed that butler seemed pleased with her answer but before they went their separate ways, the housekeeper wanted to ask her own question. Saint Valentine's Day was just around the corner and since they were to be married in April, she did not see what harm it would do to ask such a simple but meaningful request.

"I've been thinking," she began carefully. "Well, I thought that since we are engaged, to be married in a matter of months, that perhaps you might call me Elsie."

Wondering what had come over the usually sensible housekeeper, the butler's eyebrows raised to his hairline and with a tilt of his head, he took a sharp glance into the crowded servant's hall. "Whatever are you thinking? Not here. Not at work," he blustered.

"It's not as if you haven't called me by my Christian name before," she wisely pointed out. "I was head housemaid when I arrived at Downton and you were already butler."

"But it…it's different now," he spoke in a low voice.

Her eyes narrowed, unsure if she understood his meaning. Pushing just a bit she inquired, "How so?"

"Mrs. Hughes, because now…" he stammered, his hand tugging at his waistcoat.

"….I hardly think….,"she interrupted. The housekeeper stopped any further argument when she saw the distress in her husband-to-be's face. She had seen the look before, the pleading eyes begging her to acknowledge the truth of his feelings even if he could not put them into words quite yet. When she realized exactly what he had meant when he had told her that things were different now, she wanted to reach out, touch his arm, smooth her fingers across it, and calm his fears but she knew that she could not. Not with their charges sitting so near but instead, she wanted him know that she understood. "Mr. Carson," she continued quietly and with a small smile, "I can wait."


	5. Worries

It seemed as if she spent most of her time sitting at her desk; her back perfectly, artificially straight, her corset digging in, lengthening her ribcage, pushing her hips into the same wooden swivel chair that she'd sat in for decades. From that desk, that chair, she had poured over miles of ledgers, linen rotas, and order slips; counselled scores of young housemaids on maintaining their virtue and nursed the cuts and bruises of footmen and dried the tears of young homesick hallboys. From that desk, she had directed a household, been a mother to other women's children, become a friend to the cook, and the confidant to the butler.

As she squinted at the columns and rows in front of her, her pencil pressing into a harsh point on the page, Mrs. Hughes began to think of what her life would be life outside of the Abbey's walls. Whether she dared admit it or not, the Abbey was safe; she knew where she stood in the chain of command, where she stood with Mrs. Patmore, with Anna, even with the Granthams.

She thought that she knew where she stood with him; they were the best of friends, confidants sharing a quiet word when house slept in the late hours. She wondered if there would ever be anything more, especially after the day at Brighton. She thought he'd retire while she continued to work, that he'd live in his house or maybe ask her to manage it. She thought that's where they stood, until his proposal and he knocked the wind from her sails. But then, she caught her breath and the seas calmed, the ship was righted.

She pulled the pencil from the page and brought the top of it to rest between her teeth. A terrible habit her mother used to tell her; girls ought not to chew on the end of pencils like that.

Though Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson that she would wait for him to call her by her Christian name, truth told, she longed to hear her name fall from his lips. In fact, she longed for many things, the brush of his hand against hers, the press of his knee against hers under the table in the servant's hall, perhaps. Though he had not explicitly said, she thought that she understood why he could not bring himself to say it at work; he didn't want to muddle their work with their private life. Their private life. That idea alone made her think on things that she had tried, with difficulty, to push to the back of her mind.

The task had been easy enough while the house had been a whir of activity but as the comings and goings of the house finally settled, Mrs. Hughes had time to wonder about a great many things whether she wanted to or not. With Lady Edith and Mr. Branson gone and Lady Mary concentrating on her new position as estate manager rather than on a new suitor, Mrs. Hughes had never seen the upstairs so quiet. Except when the Dowager visited, of course, and once she bit back a smile when she heard Andy remark to Mr. Barrow that the atmosphere in the Library resembled that of a street brawl ready to commence. Unfortunately, Mr. Carson heard Andy's offhand comment and gave the lad a dressing down for which Mrs. Hughes thought him quite undeserving.

While she worried over staff reductions, she worried more over Mr. Carson worrying, and she still fretted over Anna and Mr. Bates, concerned that they might never have a moment's peace, that another witness might come forward. Though troubled about those she loved, Mrs. Hughes was anxious about her own future most of all. She could do nothing about the staff changes, they were all at the mercy of Lord Grantham and the times in which they lived, and all she could do for the Bateses was to offer her support and to pray, both of which she did diligently.

But it was her own future that plagued Mrs. Hughes thoughts more and more. Though tied to Mr. Carson and secure enough in the idea that she would have a husband, a home, and an income, she wondered what she would do if the Granthams suddenly turned them out. How would he, or herself for that matter manage their days without the regiment of the house. While he was bound up in tradition and she very much less so, they were people of routine, of schedule. She wondered what she would find to do with no maids to direct, dinner parties to plan, accounts to balance. What would she do without the noise of the servant's hall and daily cup of tea that she enjoyed with Mrs. Patmore? Would she miss the weight of the chatelaine at her hip? The jingle of the keys that hung from it signalling her authority?

She had never really pictured her retirement; she'd never had the luxury of doing so but reality pressed upon her the need to do so now. She scribbled down in her ledger a list of tasks and a line of numbers that came to represent what might be an average day in her retirement. She figured that she could have their house, how her heart fluttered at the notion of their house, cleaned top to bottom in two hours. Stove scrubbed, floor mopped, bathroom cleaned, and rooms dusted. It might take longer on washday. Three hours, perhaps after she'd stripped linens from the beds – the beds – thoughts of beds, and one bed in particular, had begun to occupy her thoughts more often.

She and Mr. Carson had never fully discussed the exact nature of their marriage. They loved one another she was sure of that; she knew that she loved him, had for a long time, and she knew that he loved her. However, she had begun to wonder exactly what he would expect from her. Oh, he would expect her to cook his meals and keep the house tidy, to darn his socks and keep their books. He would offer his arm on their way to church on Sundays and on walks into the village, expect her to receive guests and make a hospitable home. But what else might he expect?

Perhaps, she mused, he might expect a loving companionship; an extension of what they already shared. And at their ages, what would be so wrong with that? To sit at the end of the evening, sipping a nice sherry, and then retiring off to bed. Separately. She bit down on the pencil that she had brought back to her lip.

Caught up in her own thoughts, Mrs. Hughes did not hear the knock at her sitting room door or the clatter of teacups on the tray as Mrs. Patmore set it down on the nearby table. Only when Mrs. Patmore called her name twice did Mrs. Hughes startle and with a surprised expression turn toward the cook.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Patmore, I didn't realize it was time for our tea," Mrs. Hughes admitted.

"That much I can tell," the cook replied sympathetically as she waved the housekeeper off and began to pour, pushing a cup of tea toward her friend. "What's got you so distracted?"

"Oh, it's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"I was just thinking about what life will be like once Mr Carson and I marry," Mrs Hughes answered with an uncertain smile.

This look of trepidation was not lost on the perceptive cook who leaned in closer, stretching slightly across the table, and looked the housekeeper squarely in the eye. "Are you getting cold feet Mrs. Hughes because that's perfectly normal and ….."

"Oh, heavens no," Mrs. Hughes interrupted the cook with a dismissive wave of her hand and a nervous laugh. She did not have cold feet about the wedding that much was true; it was the wedding night and every night after that of which she was unsure.

"Mr Carson hasn't…"

"Oh, no, no. Everything is fine," Mrs. Hughes tried her best to sound reassuring but the cook was not convinced.

"Then what is it?"

This was not a discussion that Mrs. Hughes wished to have with anyone, let alone the cook. The only other person in the house that she ever discussed personal matters with was Mr. Carson and she certainly could never approach him with her concerns. She sighed deeply and then pressed her lips together before continuing.

"Well, I do wonder what Mr. Caron's expectations are? What I mean to say is that he still calls me Mrs. Hughes even though we are engaged. I wonder if he continue will call me that once we're married?"

The cook's confused look made a flustered Mrs. Hughes feel disconcerted even more so, as if suddenly she was speaking in riddles.

"What I mean is….does he want Mrs. Hughes the housekeeper or Elsie, a wife?"


	6. Margaux

Mr. Carson rested the ledger on a nearby table and settled himself on an old, worn, leather-covered stool in a far corner of the wine cellar. One of his favourite places at the Abbey, the quiet solitude of the wine cellar allowed the butler to reflect on the day's events or simply to not think at all if he wished.

While Mrs. Hughes found the confines of her sitting room particularly comforting, a calm port in the storm of upheaval, as of late Mr. Carson found himself escaping to the wine cellar in order to contemplate the changes that were occurring not only in the house, but also in his life. While the house was changing, staff resigning, cuts being made, he found comfort in the fact that Mrs. Hughes remained steadfast by his side. He had once told her that he knew that she would never leave him. Then, it was a wish, a plea cloaked in statement of hope. Though she had not answered him with a with a roll of the eyes and an "of course not" or a comforting "don't be silly Mr. Carson, I would never leave you," he knew that when she had turned down the farmer, the nice man with the coat that was too tight and the red face, that she would never leave. Over the years, Mr. Carson had often wondered why she turned Joe Burns down but in the end, he decided that it did not matter because what mattered was that she had agreed to be his wife.

As Mr. Carson catalogued His Lordship's wine, carefully lifting bottles from the wooden crates, inspecting them, and inscribing their particulars into his ledger, he thought of what life with Mrs. Hughes might be like after they married. Visions of her, smiling eyes, teasing words, affectionate prodding, soothing fingers gently smoothing, grasping tightly to his hand when he became flustered; this he could all see so clearly. Their house on Brouncker Road, visions of her standing, sleeves pushed up, hands plunged deep into a sinkful of warm, soapy wash water, humming a tune as she scrubbed the supper dishes while he stood beside her, dried and stacked them; the things that married people do. Before he realized it, he felt his lips tug into a contented smile. Perhaps leaving the Abbey might not be so hard with her by his side.

He pictured every room in their little cottage. The sitting room with a cozy fire, their enjoying a small glass of sherry at the end of the day, together on their settee, no longer a table between them. Perhaps, he would reach out, take her hand as they discussed what they had done with their day or discuss nothing at all. Maybe he would read while she mended his shirt where he snagged the sleeve on the thorn of a rose bush in their garden. Yes, he could envision a happy home with Mrs. Hughes.

Then, his mind wondered to other places, other rooms of their house. He had tried desperately not to think of the bedrooms of their house, one bedroom in particular. During the day, when he could occupy his mind with the tasks of being butler, Mr. Carson pushed away thoughts of the future Mrs. Carson. He did not think of how her hair would look hanging in a braid over her shoulder, how the delicate skin of her neck might smell like lavender or lilac, and how her nightgown might reveal more to him than he ever dared to dream he would ever see. No, he did not think of these things then.

But when the house went quite or he escaped to the seclusion of the wine cellar, he found it more difficult to control his thoughts. He wondered if she slept on the right or left side of the bed, if she liked one blanket or two covering her at night. Would she would like him sleeping against her, his arm wrapped around her waist, or perhaps her head resting comfortably in the soft dip of his shoulder? He imagined her hand resting on his heart, her wedding ring glistening in the moonlight and how he might lift her hand to his lips to kiss the ring he had placed there in front of God and their family.

Then panic gripped his heart and he wondered if he should situate himself far to his side of the bed to allow her space. He wondered if she would want to share a bed at all, perhaps she would want to sleep apart. He would place no demands on her if that was what she wanted. Drawn from his distractions, he suddenly felt the pen slide across the page, making a nasty black mark, a careless mistake on the immaculate ledger. Mistakes were unlike him; everyone knew that Carson never made mistakes. Except, he chided himself, waiting so long to admit that he loved Mrs. Hughes.

As Mr. Carson lifted a bottle of margaux from one of the crates, he suddenly found himself drawn back to the night of his proposal to Mrs. Hughes. He had been overcome when she had agreed to marry him, shocked that she was surprised that he had asked her. Did the woman not know of his feelings for her? Had he been so opaque with her that she had reason to doubt him?

"What's that?" a voice called from the doorway

Mr. Carson's head snapped up at the intrusion. Usually, no one dared interrupt him in the wine cellar. Caught off guard and realizing that he had been caught staring at the bottle, he cleared his throat before replying to the cook.

"Oh, it's a bottle of margaux, Mrs. Patmore. A very nice vintage." He smiled as he turned to place it in the appropriate slot along the wall. Turning back to the cook, he continued. "You see a margaux comes from a region in France where the soil is quite full of gravel. It forces the vines to grow deep into the soil so they must become very strong but the wine that is produced is very fragrant, soft, delicate….very feminine."

Mrs. Patmore smiled and shook her head fondly at the butler. "Are you sure that you're describing wine Mr. Carson?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Carson asked, his brows knitted in utter confusion.

"If you only understood women the way you understand wine," Mrs. Patmore tried to explain. "I think that it's time we had a talk."

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

With Mrs. Patmore's help, Mr. Carson realized that while Mrs. Hughes seemed to anticipate his every move, always two steps ahead of him, that when all was said and done she was a woman, a woman that needed to be loved and cherished. For years, she had done the doting, the cherishing, and the reassuring and now it was his turn. His turn to tell her exactly what he wanted, expected of her and what she could expect from him and if she was still agreeable to their arrangement then so be it.

He led the housekeeper into his pantry and closed the door behind them. They stood in the centre of the room for a long moment, the air in the room heavy, pregnant with anticipation. The housekeeper knew that the cook had confronted butler and she felt quite guilty about having put Mr. Carson before the firing squad. If only they could speak of these matters themselves.

"Mr. Carson, let me say….."

"….I've been a fool," he interrupted with a wave of his hand. Mrs. Hughes's face flashed into confusion as Mr. Carson began to speak again. "I mean to say that I've not been as forthcoming with you as I should have been about our understanding."

Mrs. Hughes felt her stomach sink. Obviously, her worst fears were true; Mr. Carson wanted a companion for his wife and she was the fool to expect anything any different. He wanted the security of a gentle loving friendship in his dotage and truth told she did not wish to be alone either. She'd never let on that she was devastated, no, she'd tell him that Mrs. Patmore had misunderstood her and that their arrangement needn't change at all.

Just as she was about to speak, to put him, to put them both out of their misery, when Mr. Carson closed the distance between them and was standing so very close to her that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her.

"I've always thought that you knew what I was thinking before I said it but I suppose that I was wrong on that account. I'm sorry." Mr. Carson reached down to draw Mrs. Hughes's face into his hands, cradling it softly, reverently with all of the love he could show her. "I asked you to marry me because I love you." Pausing for a moment, he needed to make certain she understood. "Elsie…completely in every way a man loves his wife."" He watched Mrs. Hughes close her eyes and breathe in deeply, a smile blossoming from her lips.

Closing his eyes, savouring the moment that he'd put everything right between them and that he had declared the full scope of his love for her, he gently pulled her face toward him and placed a kiss to her forehead. As he felt her arms slip around his waist, she told him that she loved him and in that moment he knew that though they would disagree from time to time, that she would push and pull him into a future of which he was frightened, the one thing that he was sure of was that they would be together.


	7. A Soft Answer

"A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger."

Standing in the middle of her sitting room, lost in thought and staring at her own reflection in the looking glass, the housekeeper thought back on Reverend Travis's sermon. Today certainly was not the first time she had heard the old proverb; it was not even the first time that she had heard Reverend Travis preach it. No, one of her earliest memories was hearing the clear voice of her mother teaching her to hold her tongue, to answer softly. It was a lesson she never quite learned.

Donal Fraser had teased Becky to the point of tears and a twelve-year-old Elsie had given him the sharp edge of her tongue and a jarring slap to his face. Having sent a red-faced Donal home, Margaret Hughes dried Becky's tears and settled her near the barn with a pair of small kittens to watch over. Margaret and her elder daughter settled themselves on a swing and while keeping an eye on Becky and the kittens, she reminded Elsie of the virtues of a quiet word and a kind nature.

Now as a mature woman of some years, the words rang through her ears again, not in her mother's voice but in the nasally righteous tones of the vicar. For an instant, she wondered if she and Mr. Carson had been caught out. Had their "little disagreements," as he called them, had become fodder for the town gossips? Why else would Reverend Travis expound on this particular scripture just as they were negotiating the plans for their wedding?

She had hoped that the words had registered on the man who had sat next to her; the moment the words tumbled from Reverend Travis's mouth, the housekeeper discreetly cut her eyes in the direction of the butler. She hoped that had the vicar's words held any meaning for him, she might see the faintest hint of recognition play across his face. Perhaps, he would discreetly look down to his shoes, fidget with his waistcoat, or glance in her direction and with an apologetic and tender smile. Yet, she saw nothing unusual, nothing to suggest that the vicar or the hand of Providence had imparted a fresh revelation upon Mr. Carson.

Brushing into place a few loose strands, she ran her hand across her hair and thought of his flirtatious words from the year before. How the richness of his voice, the sweetness of his joy at their being back in agreement over the war memorial business made her suddenly flustered; made her look to the glass to see that her hair was tidy. She shook her head a little. They had always bickered but to be in such disagreement now when they should be happy, left her sad, angry and confused. She had tried to speak softly, but harshness seemed to fuel many of their conversations now.

She wanted a small wedding, just their friends, and their family. Naturally, he wanted something grand and once the family had gotten the bit between their teeth, it seemed that she was left reeling; a bride with no say in planning her own wedding. She had planned to wear a dress, something nice but not extravagant; something she already owned and hoped that perhaps Anna or Miss Baxter might spruce up. She hadn't the money for a new dress, something worn once and put into a box only to be stored in a trunk, forgotten by everyone except herself. No, any extra money needed to be put away; for Becky's care, for the repairs for the house on Brouncker Road, for their retirement. But then Her Ladyship caught wind of it, said that Mrs. Hughes deserved something special for her wedding day. The housekeeper was thankful for Her Ladyship's offer of a new dress, she was, but somehow this simple wedding between two simple people had become something unrecognizable. Something pretentious and unwieldly that left them in disagreement. Never had Mr. Carson been so obstinate, so unmovable, and so unwilling to disappoint the family. Could he not recognize that she was the bride? That it was her wedding to plan?

"Mrs. Hughes," a voice called from the doorway.

The housekeeper startled; pulled from her thoughts, she quickly turned toward the door to find Mr. Carson.

"What is it Mr. Carson?"

"I thought that I would tell you that Lady Mary has offered to host the reception in the Great Hall," the butler replied cautiously. They had not spoken since returning to the Abbey after church service, both still smarting over exactly how elaborate the wedding would be. He recognized the clipped words, the exasperated tones; her mood had not improved.

Her well of patience almost gone dry, the housekeeper glared at the butler, her hands clasped firmly in front of her, knuckles gone white with pressure.

"Did she?"

"She did," he replied, tugging on his waistcoat. "She was quite insistent."


	8. Her Husband

No man has ever looked at her the way that he looks at her, the way that he is looking at her now.

Certainly, no hall boy nor footman ever has; not even when she was young and her figure firm, hips slim, skin smooth, her face not lined with wrinkles. No, they may have leered at her with dark, dead squinty eyes and a hint of mischief playing about their lips as they hid behind a door or around a corner waiting for her to pass by. They waited, reaching out to grab a handful of her skirt in a vain attempt to pull her into a corner to sneak a hurried kiss. That is until they met with the backside of her hand across her their faces.

No, no hallboy nor footman ever looked her the way that he looks at her, his eyes so soft with love and devotion that it makes her question why they've waited so long. Why it took a day at the seaside for her to reach for his hand, challenge him to love her, to acknowledge openly that theirs might be more than collegial affection.

Not even Joe Burns looked at her the way the way that he looks at her. The farmer had been, is still, a good and kind man. He cared about her she didn't doubt that then and still doesn't. But she knows that Joe wanted a farmer's wife, someone to help run the farm. Someone to help slop the pigs and tend the chickens, to manage his books, to clean his house and wash his clothes, and to have Sunday dinner on the table after church. He wanted someone to rub lineament into his sore shoulder after a hard day's work and warm his bed at night. He was lonely, but she was not.

She had Downton and she had him, whether she realized it then or not. She didn't love Joe Burns, not in the way that matters, not in the way that wives should love their husbands.

Not like she loves this man who hovers above her, his eyes locked with hers, soft murmurs tumbling from his lips; he's repeating the vows they've spoken only hours earlier. His nimble fingers gently tugging at the strings of her nightgown, lowering them reverently down her shoulders. He exposes freckled flesh that no man save the doctor has ever seen and he smiles and hums in appreciation. He lowers his lips to hers, a soft kiss before dipping lower, kissing a trail down the slope of her neck, the meandering lines of her shoulder. He brings his gaze back to meet hers as he begins to pull the nightgown lower exposing her inch by inch and she watches him, as he undresses her, as the satin of her nightgown slides across the plain of her stomach, over the flair of her hips, down the firmness of her thighs. Finally, she is bare before him. Exposed. And he does not seem to notice the scars and wrinkles, the signs of age that so troubled her.

No man has ever looked at her the way her husband is looking at her, his eyes dark, burning with hot desire that makes her feel simultaneously both comforted and drunk with power, intoxicated with the knowledge that she has done this. That she has caused this reaction in him, that she is the only one he desires; that hers is the body that he worships here in the stillness of their room and between the sheets of their marital bed, and it makes her question why she ever worried that she couldn't please him at this late stage of their lives.

She watches as he removes his pyjama top, sliding it over the broad chest that she had imagined, dreamed about when she fretted over what their married life would be like; when she wondered what he might expect of her. Her imaginings pale in comparison to what she sees as his shirt falls away and he folds it across the foot of the bed. She sees taut muscles that stretch and move and flex; a faint patch silver hair that catches in the moonlight that peeks around the drapes. Suddenly, she feels compelled to touch him, but is forced to wait as he shuffles out of his pyjama bottoms; he tries to be discreet. He doesn't rush, doesn't want her to feel shocked by his evident anticipation, by what she is doing to him and she is thankful for his concern, for the gentle, loving man that he is.

And when he settles himself, pulling the sheet back over them, once again he looks at her with an adoration transfused with lust and confirms that he not only loves her but that he wants her, desires her; he needs her. They have waited so long for this, to become fully invested in one another. As they move together, this first time as man and wife, she knows that he needs them to become one, needs for them, in this moment to be in agreement mind, body, soul.

It is her affirmation that he covets. The small sighs of pleasure that rise from somewhere primal, her fingers carding through his hair then dropping gently to caress his cheek, a lone finger tracing the along the soft curve of his lips, spur him on and she sees in his gaze everything that he is too much of gentleman to say aloud. She knows that he would never shock her with the words that he is thinking but she recognises his passion all the same, sees it etched in the lines of pleasure that tug at his lips, the crinkles around his eyes as he regards her with wonder that she accepted him and became his wife.

The city hums with excitement outside, a never-ending cacophony of sounds, but they hear none of it. Gentle passionate words of love and devotion, deep kisses, bodies moving effortlessly in rhythm with one another, these are the things that matter to them.

She feels a fool for having put him off, for not having settled their wedding date sooner when there was nothing at all of which to be frightened or worried.

She loves him, this man. Her husband.


	9. His Wife

He's hurt her feelings.

This is the first time that he has hurt Elsie. The first time that he's gone and really put his foot in it since he placed his ring on her finger and she took his name for her own. His overwhelming sense of love for her has only grown with each day and he still wonders why on earth she agreed to entrust her life's happiness to him. But now, with a single misplaced huff, a disparaging eye, and a suggestion that sounded a little too much like a command, he's wounded her pride, cast aspersions on her role as a wife. And it is the last thing in the world he wants to do because she is all he has ever wanted and rather than her fretting that she's disappointed him, he knows that it is he who has disappointed her.

He's been harsh with Mrs. Hughes many times, called her a woman of no standards, even gone so far as to accuse her of not pulling her weight when he thought she was lagging behind the rest of the staff. He still remembers the weak smile she offered when he told her that he had made up his mind to leave her and Downton behind to run Lady Mary's house at Haxby Park. The sadness behind her eyes haunts him still and he wonders now if she'd felt something between them then, something more than simply the potential loss of a very dear friend.

He's always been the one with harsh words, the one to bluster and posture, to puff out his chest in a pompous display of authority only to have her diffuse his ungallant behaviour with a glance or tsk of exasperation or perhaps a pithy retort. He has always been confident that after the dust settles, she will receive the peace offering he will lay at her feet, the promise of a small sherry and quiet conversation. That he will desperately seek absolution and she will always grant it.

Mrs. Hughes understands him. She knows that most of Carson's bluster and fretting is not directed at her anyway. He is simply working out his frustrations with the house, things that he cannot control and she is there to take the brunt of it. She is the only one who really knows him, knows that his bark is most certainly worse than his bite. After all, he knows that she will never leave him.

However, things are different now. She is no longer just Mrs. Hughes but Elsie, his wife. He is no longer an old bachelor, no longer simply Carson, but he is Charles, husband of Elsie. As his wife clears and washes the dishes from their disastrous meal, he sits in his comfortable chair in the cosiness of their cottage, wondering how he could be so insensitive over something so trivial.

His knuckles turn white as he balls his fist, grinds it into the palm of his other hand. He's not meant to be grumpy, not meant to hurt her feelings when she's been so eager to place the fruits of her labour before him expecting her new husband to acknowledge her efforts. He knows now that he barely acknowledged the busy workings of her hands, the care with which she made sure that everything was within his reach; how she had taken time to prepare one of his favourite meals and laid a proper table to his exacting standards.

There is no butler's book to teach him all of the things that he should know about his new bride. Mrs. Hughes is confident; Elsie needs reassurances. But what had he done? Rather than giving her a kind word, thanking her for her efforts and the fine home she was making for them, he had blustered on about problems at the Abbey. Blustered about things over which he has no control. And she had done what she always does. She listened patiently to his pontificating on how Downton Abbey was changing and not for the better.

He complained of housemaids who are leaving service and that they've no kitchen maids and only one hall boy. He is pleased for Anna and Mr. Bates, knows that they have wanted a family for so long, but that means they will likely be leaving service as well. Lady Edith is courting that young man and Lady Mary seems intrigued with yet another dark haired suitor. There has even been talk of Poor Old Molesley leaving to become a schoolteacher. And Sergeant Willis. He has become such a regular visitor to the house, that Carson wonders who he will arrest and take away next. And now the family is planning to allow the public into the house. They will pay a fee to enter by the front door so that they can gape and gawk and allow their sticky fingered children to touch priceless antiques. He does not like any of it. Is it any wonder he has come home wound up?

Charles scrubs a hand across his face and through his hair and he knows what he must do. He must make things right, admit that he was upset about other things and beg her forgiveness.

He makes his way from their sitting room into the kitchen where she is sorting dishes and washing up. Her back is to him and he is glad because he is nervous; she makes him feel so many things now. She has opened him to so many thoughts and feelings, emotions that he has previously kept locked away and if he is honest, it is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

"Elsie," he asks quietly. When she does not turn, does not really acknowledge that he has spoken to her, he moves cautiously closer. "Elsie, I wanted to say….ehm….I wanted to say that I shouldn't have spoken out of turn. I was so upset about the changes at the house….."

His voice trails off as he hopes that she will turn, face him with kind eyes and a bright smile, and tell him that she understands, that there is nothing to worry about. But her silence is all the more telling than any pithy remark or exasperated sigh followed by "All right, Charles." He knows that she is not going to help him out of this one, that it is his mess to clean up.

He plucks up the courage to speak again, when he notices how she lifts her hands from the dishwater, sleeves rolled to her elbows, she pushes a strand of loose hair back from her face and then continues on her task. He wishes that he had been the one to push the loose tendril away from her face and to then tilt her face upward and place a gentle kiss to her lips. If only his apology could be that simple.

"Elsie, I never meant to suggest that you weren't…well, when I suggested that you ask Mrs. Patmore for some advice, I never meant to hurt your feelings."

No more did the words pass across his lips than he saw her shoulders collapse in on themselves. He watches her shake, a hand reaching for a dishtowel and then covering her mouth. Rushing to her side, he takes her in his arms and turns her toward him burying her face against his chest.

"Oh, Elsie, I'm sorry, you know how I get when I'm worried and upset. I didn't mean to sound so harsh," he whispers against her ear. "I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on you."

Just when he is about to pull her closer, beg her forgiveness, reassure her that she is everything that he wants and that he is a foolish old man who speaks before he thinks, she pulls back and looks up at him with glistening eyes. His stomach sinks knowing that he has disappointed her, that he has been the one to make her feel disparaged in some way.

"It was horrible," she manages solemnly, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth.

"Yes, what I said was horrible," Charles adds as he tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear. "I don't have the right to….."

Putting her hand to his chest and patting, laughter overtakes her once again. This time he sees the merriment in her eyes and tears emerge once again from amusement not anger.

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Carson. I didn't say that you were horrible," she laughs. "I said that it was horrible. That was the worst roast lamb I've ever eaten. And for the record, I think I will have a word with Mrs. Patmore tomorrow."

"I am sorry, Elsie," he offers again as he places a reverent kiss to her lips.

"I know, Charles," she replies returning his kiss with a little more fervour.

"Ehm, the dishes can wait. I'll do them in the morning before we leave for the Abbey if you'd like to ehm," he stumbles. "That is if you would like to retire early this evening."

"I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué," she teases as she threads her fingers through his hair.

"And if I did? We're getting on Mrs. Carson you and I. We can afford to live a little."


	10. Astonished

is hands still hers, stops her from continuing the movement of removing the pins from her hair. He says nothing as he finishes the task that she began. This is the first time that he has done this, removing the pins from her hair, gently releasing the tightly wound locks from their confinement. But this has been a day and a night of firsts.

She never thought he would do it; never be so bold to join her in sitting in the library even though they were the only ones home, alone. Once, Mrs. Patmore told Elsie that she had him wrapped around her little finger and she'd scoffed at the time because if she had, he'd have already proposed by then instead of stuttering around about business ventures. Nevertheless, with one flick of the wrist, one beckoning look, her husband joined her on the settee in the library and enjoyed it. He even when so far as to lean back and encourage her to do so. That astonished her completely. She wondered then, still wonders now, if he might have wrapped his arm around her, encouraged a little snuggle if Mr. Barrow had not interrupted them.

She watches him in the mirror; watches as he studies her while carefully removing the pins and unwinding her hair, allowing the silken curls to slip through his fingers. Though the scene is so very innocent, he makes her feel cherished, safe, and electric all at once.

He continues on his task and she thinks back on that little plan that she and Mrs. Patmore hatched. She was not convinced that it would work. She wondered if he would take the contents of the basket Mrs. Patmore put together and prepare their supper or if he'd insist that they walk back up to the Abbey, concede defeat, and dine in the servant's hall. Yet to her utter astonishment, he had agreed to it; had agreed to take it in his stride do as she asked.

And it has endeared him to her all the more. Only added to the immeasurable love that she has for him.

When he's removed the last of the pins, placed it with the others in the little porcelain box on her dressing table, she sighs. She wonders if he is going to step away now, make his way to bed, and fall fast asleep. She so badly wants to hold him close, to soothe his ruffled feathers, to love him. But she doubts Mr. Carson is up for any of that tonight being that he couldn't keep his eyes open while at dinner.

Instead, he picks up the brush that lies near the little box and returns to stand behind her. He begins delicately to comb out her hair and still he has said nothing to her, but she hears his breath beginning to fall heavy while her own is growing more unsteady.

She suddenly feels the cool night air on her neck as he gently pushes aside her hair. He draws himself closer to her and she feels the warmth of his lips on her neck, a gentle kiss at the spot that he's learned makes her knees go weak. They have learned so very many things about one another, so many intimate things, beyond what late night conversations over sherry can reveal.

The gentle kiss gives way to several as his fingers slips under the collar of her nightgown and his intentions become clear. He turns her toward him and she sees eyes dark and serious, full of adoration and understanding. He claims her lips in a sweet and tender kiss before she encourages him further and then she finds herself fidgeting at the buttons of his pyjama top. He captures her hand, kisses it, and leads her to bed.


	11. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of attempted suicide; Thomas Barrow.

Of all the things that married life has changed for her, things to which she has had to grow accustomed, sharing a bed has been the easiest of which to adjust.

He does not know it but she covets this time with him when the house is quiet except for his gentle snoring and the tapping of the tree branches against the roof of the house. This is the time when she can look at him and study him without feeling awkward.

The weather is slightly warm out, but they are snuggled under a quilt that her mother had patched together. It is not so thick anymore, a little threadbare in places, but it's one of the only nice things that she has left of her mother's. He has one arm tucked under his pillow crushing it into submission, while his other hand rests in the space between them, fingers curled in tightly against one another.

Sleep usually smoothes the frown from his lips, leaving a contented look of peace playing across his features. But not tonight. Tonight his brow is still furrowed. His are lips pressed tightly together and his hair is all-askew. The bryclcreem is never completely washed out and it causes his hair to ruffle and jut out in all sorts of strange directions. Lying here this way, vulnerable, it doesn't take much for her to see the insecure young man hidden beneath an aging man's façade.

She turns a bit more and reaches out to touch him as if she can smooth away the frustration from his features, as if her touch can melt away his pain. If she can help him she must even in the smallest of ways.

She slides a hand along his forehead and down his cheek, her fingers lovingly glide along the cleft of his chin, but his features do not soften. So she repeats her pattern over and then again. Softly, slowly in the vain attempt to heal him.

It is an exercise in futility.

Then suddenly, just when her fingertips leave him, when she turns away, pulls the covers over her shoulder, and attempts to chase sleep, he reaches for her. His free hand finds purchase along her hip then across the plain of her stomach. And he is pulling her closer.

The warmth of his body next to hers, the way his fingers once gripped tightly unto themselves are now wrapped around her, and how she can feel his steady breath rise and fall against her back brings her comfort. Before long, she is fast asleep.

"Come back to bed," she calls softly. She gently caresses his cheek, runs her fingers over the soft shell of his ear, down his neck, and over his shoulder.

"You've had a shock. You need to sleep. Go back to bed," he replies quietly.

"And you haven't had?"

"I didn't mean to wake you. I couldn't…I couldn't find the tin of cocoa." His voice trails off; he's tired and there is a hint resignation in his voice, the brokenness of a man struggling with what he's seen.

She gently squeezes his arm, remembering another time she saw him like this. Sad and far away, lost in thought. She releases his arm and quietly moves across their modest kitchen, fetches the tin from atop the metal cupboard near the sink. She wonders if he'd even looked for it. The tin has been in plain sight the entire time.

She scoops coal from the box near the backdoor, then thrusts it into the stove, and takes a match to it. Closing the coal compartment's door, she then busies herself, filling the kettle with water and placing on the burner. She hazards a glance toward her husband, his shoulders are slumped, and he is fidgeting with a torn spot on the corner of the tablecloth. Of course, he would notice the flaw she thinks. She has not had time to mend it and she half expects him to ask why. But he doesn't seem upset by the little tear, the fraying edges. His thoughts are elsewhere.

"Thank you," he says suddenly, his voice piercing the silence that has fallen across the room. He looks up and catches her gaze. He hopes that she knows that he's not speaking of her preparing his cocoa or even sitting up with him but so much more.

She sees the tears in his eyes and knows that he will not let them fall because that is not who he is. He is still so buttoned up, so self-contained and she does not expect him to be anything else. After all, she is not much better. There are still many things she doesn't say; she is learning to open up, learning to share fully her thoughts as well.

Placing the tin of cocoa on the counter and dusts her hands across a cloth. She places her right hand to her hip and rubs it in little circles. Often she is a little a sore during the night, at the end of a long day; getting older means she is feeling her age in all sorts of little ways.

Moving to him, she pulls the chair away from the table and sits beside him, takes his fidgeting hands in hers and stills them. She wonders if he will say anything, how much he will say. She will not press him to say anything at all.

The warmth of her hands brings him instant comfort. She has always had that effect on him. Nothing has changed in that respect. But so much as changed. Changed with the house, changed between them. He loves her so much it frightens him sometimes.

"You shouldn't have had to see that. Let alone clean it up." He sounds sympatric and angry all at once.

She sighs.

"I thought Miss Baxter should stay with Thomas and I couldn't very well ask Anna to clean the bathroom now could I?" She releases his hands and drops hers into her lap.

He has noticed that Anna has filled out but he has not asked about it. He has assumed that Elsie will tell him if there is anything that he needs to know. But she hasn't yet and so he presses a bit.

"So Anna is….?"

Elsie looks down, fidgets with her hands, smoothes her nightgown. "Yes, I think so. It is becoming quite obvious, but she's not said anything yet."

He hums noncommittally.

"I suppose that means that she'll leave service when the time comes. Lady Edith doesn't have a lady's maid but Lady Mary has different expectations," he muses scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"I suspect that Lady Mary will make due." Elsie sounds a bit harsher than she means to and she offers an apologetic smile when his head snaps up sharply. She doesn't mean to argue with him

She rises from her chair and steps close to him, places a kiss to his forehead. He pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist for a moment before she tells him that she must fetch the kettle.

She busies herself preparing their cocoa and he moves to the settee. Charles doesn't switch on the light that sits on the table nearby; the light from the kitchen is enough.

"Here we are," Elsie says, offering him a steaming mug as she sits beside him.

"Mmmm," he hums taking a sip. "Just like my mother used to make," he smiles wistfully.

Elsie fights the urge to tease him, resists the urge to revel in the fact that he has finally conceded that she has done something up to standard. But she doesn't because he has stopped complaining about her cooking, eating every morsel now, with an appreciative smile. And if she were to admit it, her culinary skills have improved, just as everything improves with practice.

They sit in silence for a long while until they hear the wind begin to rustle outside, rain begins to fall, and then the drops begin to crash into the windows with more force. Charles instinctively places his arm around his wife's shoulder and draws her close against his side.

"I never thought Thomas was capable of….."

"Do we ever know what anyone is capable of?"

"Perhaps I might have handled things differently," he muses. "I could have written some letters. Inquired of some butlers I know."

Elsie snuggles closer into him, covers his hand with her own. "We all could have been kinder," she answers. "I know we may not think it, but Thomas has feelings just like the rest of us."

"Do you think Mr. Molesley will make a go of it as a teacher? I'm not sure that I can see it," Charles asks her. He reaches for her left hand, fidgets with her wedding ring.

She knows that he is avoiding talking of the thing that worries him most. She knows because she does the same. Buying houses. Becky. Marital expectations and wifely duties.

"I think that he wants to succeed very much and that's something," she answers. "And Miss Baxter is on his side so that is a great incentive I imagine."

Charles places a kiss to her hair and lingers a moment.

"Did you know that Lady Mary took Master George to see him?" The words hang heavy around them and she knows that he does not mean Mr. Molesley of whom they have just been speaking. She knows that he means Mr. Barrow, Thomas, the under butler whose bloodied and lifeless body she helped to drag down the men's corridor and into his room hours earlier.

"Mrs. Patmore did mention that she gave Master George an orange to take to Thomas. The boy is quite fond of him," she answers quietly.

His silence says everything.

"The boy needs someone to show him fatherly attention and I must say that Thomas seems to adore him. Master George brings out the kindness in him," she finishes.

Charles knows this, has heard it among the other staff. He has heard how Thomas takes time with the boy, how the under-butler is kind and gentle with the lad. How he smiles more and how Master George laughs.

"I imagine Thomas might feel about him the way you feel about Lady Mary."

At this, she feels him stiffen. He doesn't move away, doesn't release his hold on her, but realisation begins to dawn on him that Master George doesn't darken the door of the butler's pantry. The boy does not come to him to play with toy soldiers or for the sweets that he keeps tucked away in the tin in his desk drawer. He had chalked it up to his being too busy, but he knows it is not that. It is not that at all.

He is no longer the father figure, not even the grandfather figure. Because George has a grandfather. Charles knows that his time is fading, that he is of another generation and that his Lady Mary is growing older herself. She does not need him as much as she once did. She is the estate agent now. A career woman in her own right. And she will remarry – one day – and be happy and need his reassurances less and less.

"Do you think that anyone….that Lady Mary might blame…." he does not finish his question because there is no need. Elsie turns and looks him square in the eye.

"I don't presume to know what Lady Mary thinks, but don't go borrowing trouble. Thomas has been unhappy for a long time despite what anyone may have done or said. The only thing that we can do now is to treat him with the respect that we owe any man."

He knows that she is right, but the sting of guilt still niggles at him. He wonders if His Lordship feels much the same. He manages a small smile and nods, pats her hand with his.

"Come on now, let's get back to bed. We've to be at the house in a few hours," she says as she tugs him up from the settee.

As they walk across the room and he switches the kitchen light off, he wonders how it might be to have their days to themselves.

"Perhaps, we could visit our house tomorrow," he offers quietly. "The workmen are finishing and we could begin planning the future."


End file.
